


Absolutely Fucked

by TheWeather



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Post War, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12447873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeather/pseuds/TheWeather
Summary: One morning, Harry James Potter woke up, and knew he was absolutely and royally fucked.What does he do now?





	1. Exhibit A

It was only the beginning of the day, when Harry James Potter decided he was fucked.

Rain tapped lightly on the window panes, setting up the rhythm of the morning, as he patted the bedside table for his glasses, head dizzy with sleep, nothing seemed amiss. And nothing was, to begin with.

Perhaps Fucked was an overstatement. It wasn't like the Dark Lord has just risen from the grave, lying in wait for Harry to finish his morning routine, before doing him in. No. Voldemort was just a bad dream now. A ghost in the nightmares of the people that witnessed him. But this? This was real, and very, very blonde.

It was by morning's grey light that Harry decided that he was fucked. He started with business as usual, get up, shuffle to the bathroom, brush teeth, wank. But then, issues started to arise.It wasn’t unusual for an occasional intrusive thought to replace the lustful images drummed up from the glossy pages of Seeker Weekly, but it was easy to shake them away. Not this time though. Scenes of steel grey eyes and platinum hair bore into him from his own brain, and instead of shaking them away, he clutched himself harder, faster, and with more intent.

This was exhibit A, of why Harry Potter was fucked.

There was no denying that Draco Malfoy was attractive. He had an air of elegance, an alluring charm that many had tried (and failed) to replicate before the war, nothing compared to the real thing. His hair was always soft, always falling perfectly against a sharp cheekbone, stroking ivory skin. And his eyes, his eyes were Harry’s favourite. He felt electrified when they were on him, brilliant silver laced with lead and flecks of the lightest blue. His intense looks always flushed Harry under the collar, but this morning’s ritual had shamed him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to meet his gaze for a while.

To find Malfoy attractive was one thing, but to be attracted to him was a step Harry was reluctant to take. Too risky, too experimental, too much history. He was the chosen one, and Malfoy was the one who had no choice.

Not to mention the elephant in the room. Malfoy wasn’t gay.

He would have known, right? If Malfoy was gay. Harry liked to think that he wasn’t that oblivious, and through all his obsessive stalking, not once had the blonde done anything not straight. Not a single lingering look at any male, and plenty of women who had hung off his side. Harry thought he knew Draco inside and out but he was practically a stranger, even after the terrors of war. They were barely friends, but they saw each other a lot. Eight years had their own dorms, and only a handful from each house had returned after the destruction that they tried to prevent. All war veterans, scarred, broken, in desperate need of space and comfort, and Hogwarts delivered. House unity, McGonagall said, was important, after the travesty of the battle. And so there was only one eighth year common room. Two dorms, and a lot of arguments.

“Harry, mate? You up yet? ‘Mione are going down for breakfast in a sec.” His best friend’s voice snapped him from his stupor, and he shoved all thoughts of stupidly attractive Slytherins aside, pulling open his poster-bed curtains.  
“I’m ready, just daydreaming,” He replied, descending the staircase to meet the final third of the trio.

Hermione hadn’t changed much over the year. She was still as steadfast with her studies, always busy with work and terrifying everyone about NEWTS as she tried to complete every essay she could get her hands on. But she was more responsible, tired around the eyes, but brighter, and motherly. Ron had changed too, he was taller, matching Harry for height but more filled out, not the gangly teen he had been the last time he had walked these halls. A lot of eight years had filled out, Harry included, but there was one person in particular who had, that Harry was more aware of than anyone else-

Someone with blonde hair and cold, grey eyes.


	2. Exhibit B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is distracted, and it’s not directly Draco’s fault.

After the war, Draco had been unsettlingly quiet. Perhaps the Malfoy confidence he had worn with pride was now a burden, to be ashamed of, or perhaps it was the fear of having his bollocks hexed off if he drew attention to himself that kept his mouth screwed shut, Harry wasn’t sure, but as soon as they had stepped on the train, he was determined to find out.

“At least eat something, Harry,” Hermione’s worried tone washed over him, and he sheepishly bit into a slice of toast in reply. His mind wasn’t focused on food, no matter how good it was, not to mention, it was far more interesting to watch Malfoy pick at his food than pay attention to picking at his own.

He was thin, too thin, and it concerned Harry. Had no one else noticed how little he ate? He always left the Great Hall early, a younger Ravenclaw, bravado fuelled by classmates would throw a sharp remark and he would disappear. Harry wasn’t sure where his rival had gone, wasn’t sure who had replaced him, and was desperate to see his return. He sighed, tearing his eyes from the blonde’s depressing form, and looked at his friends. Each of them had dark bags under the eyes, each of them worn, but content for the minute. The terror was in their beds, in the early hours of the morning. Not when they were together, there was safety in numbers, unless you were a Slytherin.

“Have you finished your Charms essay?” Hermione asked, once again trying to talk to him. It wasn’t his fault he was unresponsive, there was just so much going on, and he just wanted to take a backseat from the limelight, even for a little while.   
“No, haven’t even started it. I’m going to the library later if you want to join me.” The brunette shook her head.   
“I promised Ron I’d help him with his Transfiguration, you know he’s God awful at it.” Harry nodded, knowing all too well that Ron and Transfiguration just did not mix.  
“Good luck,” he said, and he meant it.  
“I’m sure I won’t need it, but thanks,” she said, but she didn’t.

“Are you going to watch the Quidditch tryouts this afternoon Harry?” another voice popped up, from further down the table. It was Ginny, all ivory skin and soft freckles. She was beautiful, even in the grey light, but his heart no longer throbbed for her like it used to, and perhaps deep down, she knew that too.  
“I can if you want, Captain,” He grinned, “We all know that Gryffindor have to win the cup this year, and you’re just the captain to do it.” She snorted in reply  
“Oh please, you’re the best seeker in the history of seekers, are you sure you don’t want to play this year?” He shook his head, mouth full of toast under Hermione’s watchful eye. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to play Quidditch. Soaring through the air, one with your broom, clear skies and snitch right ahead, a glimmer of gold on the horizon, it was the best feeling in the world. But he didn’t want to play competitively anymore, he was too focused on trying to have a normal year, trying to recover from his memories, and he knew his heart just wasn’t in it.  
“Nah, it’s alright, besides Eighth Years can’t play, or else you know Ron would be pestering you for Keeper.”  
“I would not!” Ron retorted indignantly, but Harry hummed a few bars of ‘Weasely is our King’ and ignored his response.

Even if he was fucked, Harry supposed, he would be alright.

Harry preferred to stick to the secret passageways to get around Hogwarts these days. Too many people for his liking, too many first years that treat him like a God, or fifth-year girls throwing themselves at him in hopes that he’d fall in love and they’d prance away into the sunset. This year, every suitcase, bag, and parcel was searched for love potions, alluring perfumes, and charmed chocolates, just in case. Filch had also tried to make a case for Weasley Wizard Wheezes to be banned, but McGonagall declined, not having the heart to remove them in the wake of Fred’s death. Of course, that didn’t stop the detentions for their use in class, or the piercing looks when the packages arrived by Owl. When he finally arrived at the library, Harry soon realised that it was almost as packed as the dreaded halls. With the extra students, the seventh years needing to make up for almost an entire school year missed with their N.E.W.Ts on the horizon, it wasn’t surprising, but was nonetheless disappointing. He just wanted to do his work in solitude, or as close as he could come to it.

And then, he spotted it. A lonely table for six, with five chairs empty, and a sole figure studying between mountains of old books and new parchment. A figure with blonde hair and grey eyes. Draco Malfoy. Before he could stop himself, Harry picked his way through the throng of seventh-years and pulled out the chair next to Draco.  
“You mind?” He asked, setting his bag down on the hard wooden surface. Draco looked up slowly, mild surprise forming over his otherwise impassive features as he recognised the voice.  
“Uhm, no?” He seemed unsure if it was a joke, eyes scanning the room for hidden Gryffindors ready to laugh at the death eater, because why would the chosen one hang out with him?   
“Great, thank you, I don’t really want to be swamped by first years, charms is difficult enough as it is.” Harry smiled warmly, trying to not let his heartbeat all the way out of his chest and he swore, the faintest, smallest crack of a smile formed at the edges of the Slytherin’s lips. The small was the barest, and so, so genuine Harry had to fight for the red of his cheeks to fade into his tan.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Exhibit B, of why Harry Potter was fucked.


	3. Exhibit C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gryffindors are the best, and worst, because Harry can't quite lie well enough to their, brave, loyal faces.

“If you use a lead cauldron you’re going to die, Potter.” Draco’s smooth baritone overcame the scratching of his quill. Harry looked up with his work, mildly confused.  
“Why? I thought we were supposed to?”  
“No, no, you need to use Iron. The lead reacts with the dragon’s blood, explosions, poison, you name it. Lead and dragon’s blood does not mix.” He sighed, exasperated, and scratched out the last sentence.

For the past few weeks Harry had been seeking out Draco in the library. In the beginning, Harry had just been wanting to escape his friends, his social responsibilities. He didn’t have to be polite to Draco, and Draco didn’t have to be polite to him. But now, some semblance of a friendship was forming, and it burned Harry’s heart because he knew he wanted more, but he was barely grasping onto the olive branch as it was.  
“I don’t see why you don’t just do my potions work for me, I’ll do defence.”  
“Because they’ll think that I, the big mean death eater, am coercing you into doing my work for me.” He made a face, but didn’t respond. There was no denying that people didn’t like Draco coming back for Eighth year, but it didn’t stop him, and Harry found it admirable. Draco had been just as caught up in the war and his father’s web of lies as anyone else, his place in the war was predetermined- anyone with half a brain cell could work that out. “No no, you don’t use Angel’s trumpet! Use Aconite, it won’t kill you. Honestly Potter how did you do so well in sixth year?”  
“I had some help, okay?” He grumbled, appreciative of the help, but still frustrated at his own incompetence.  
“Yeah, as in you probably never went to potions and ended up gallivanting around with the other Gryffindors while someone else filled in for you.”  
“I do not ‘Gallivant around!’”  
“Yes, you do.” Harry poked his tongue at Draco, knowing a lost cause when he saw one.  
“Irrelevant. I was there the whole time. Maybe I’m only good with my hands.” Draco smirked at his comment, and the Gryffindor went pink when he realised what he said.  
“Oh, I’m sure you are, now finish your essay, I’m a completionist but I’m also half starved.” It was nice to see Draco want to eat again. He seemed fuller in the last few weeks, cheeks less sallow, eyes less sunken. Beautiful, not in a feminine way, but absolutely breathtaking, and Harry’s heart ached at the thought.

Harry sat on the plush leather sofa closest to the fire, affectionately dubbed ‘The Chosen Chair’ by Seamus and Dean. The Eighth year common room was fairly empty tonight, most students already in bed, exhausted from a full day of mental gymnastics.  
“Are you- Are you obsessed again?” Ron asked, spotting Harry as he walked through the portrait hole.  
“What? No, obsessed with what? I’m not obsessed!”  
“Blimey, you really are. Are you ever going to be able to go one year without being completely obsessed with Malfoy? Anyone else would think you fancy the git!”  
“Do not,” Harry mumbled, fighting the blush rising on his cheeks.  
“‘Mione! He’s doing it again, he’s obsessed!” Ron called up the stairs. Hermione, clad in her comfiest pyjamas appeared at the top of the stairs.  
“Is he doing the thing?”  
“Yeah, he’s doing the thing.”  
“What thing?!” Harry asked, completely confused.  
“Mate, whenever you’re obsessed with Malfoy you get this weird look on your face. You pace too, you know that? Do you even realise you’re doing it?” Ron dropped down onto the love-seat, earnestly looking him in the face. “Is he… up to something?”  
“No! No, he’s not up to something, he’s just…different, I dunno it’s weird. At first, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t being given a hard time by the rest of the year but we’re friends? I guess? and it’s strange and I don’t know how to feel….” Harry trailed off, realising he’d been rambling about Malfoy.  
“You most definitely like him, Harry,” Hermione’s soft tone washed over him, completely frank and always, unnervingly correct.  
“Do I? But he’s Draco, and I’m me, and he’s a bloke!”  
“Draco? You’re calling him Draco now?” Ron added, bewildered.

This was Exhibit C, and Harry was running out of excuses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got a hang of the publication fuckery. More dialog this time, not something I'm used to but heck I'm trying.
> 
> Here's to more Golden banter from the Golden Trio- and may I just say thank you to my wonderful beta yet again, love ya <3


	4. Exhibit D

Match day. It crept up on Harry far quicker than he would have liked. As pretty boy seeker for seven long years, and captain for one of those, he had to turn up and show his very best Gryffindor pride. He didn't really want to. After everything, he didn't have the naive, childlike belief in his house, or his team. He loved his friends dearly, but he could see their flaws, predjudice, blind faith, and righteousness that wasn't always righteous. That didn't mean that any other house was better, but that didn't mean his was the best.  
"Do you ever eat on a match day?" Ginny asked him quietly, he smiled thinly in return.  
"There's a lot more to think about than just Quidditch these days." Harry replied, and he felt the ginger hold the weight of his words. She piled some toast and an egg onto his otherwise bare plate.   
"Eat up Harry, I need your spirit to keep me going,"  
"It's Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, please tell me you're joking," Ron interjected, and he was right for once. The Hufflepuff team was in shambles, Harry would be surprised if they actually scored once with a Quaffle, and he doubted their beater's were up to scratch. Ginny made a face at her brother.  
"There are plenty of decent Hufflepuffs this year, Ronald,"  
"Name three!"  
Harry was already tired of their squabbling. He let his eyes wander over to the Slytherin table, again, trailing his vision lazily over a familiar blond form. Almost as if he sensed it, the Slytherin stiffened, eyes looking anywhere but at him. His brow furrowed, that was unexpected.

The crowds of students roared in delight as the teams flew onto the pitch. Harry could pick out Ginny easily, her hair glinting in the September sun, grinning ear to ear. This was going to be a quick match, Ginny was in her element, and her lithe form almost danced in the air as she held the broom with a dangerously loose grip. He followed the passes easily, Quaffle to Ginny, to Sloper to Kirke to- Where was Malfoy? He usually sat in his own small corner of the Slytherin section, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and his least favourite Theadore Nott. Nott as usual had a deplorable scowl on his face, sitting next to Millicent Bulstrode who seemed fantastically in love. Eugh. But the question still remained. Where was Draco? He'd never miss Quidditch, he's broom mad, it was the one thing he had that they could talk about for hours, no matter his terrible opinion on the Chudley Canons.   
As if she could sense his concern, Hermione placed her hand comfortingly on his shoulder.  
"I'm sure he's fine, no doubt in the library."  
"What- what do you mean? who?" Harry started, he wasn't thinking about Draco, of course he wasn't, why would he think about that twat? With his soft blond hair and gorgeous eyes-  
"You're so bloody obvious. There's a lot of people here, I wouldn't put it past someone to aim a Bludger right for him." He thought it over. As per usual, Hermione was right. Half the school wanted to do him in, this was the perfect opportunity.   
"Don't tell Ron where I'm going, he'll have an aneurism." Hermione nodded, an unreadable expression sitting on her features.  
"Don't hesitate to hex his brains out if he tries something." He raised his hand in defence, sneaking out the back of the crowd. 

As Hermione predicted, there he was, sitting perfectly poised in the back corner of the library. Their back corner of the library.   
"Hey, I thought you'd be hiding in here." Draco looked up in surprise, but it quickly turned into a scowl.  
"Yes, well, I didn't have a death wish, so." Harry grimaced, he didn't expect that response. There was a lot about Draco that he didn't expect. The way his eyes lit up when talking about potions, his quick wit could have Harry doubled over in laughter, his sombre expression when he thought no one was looking.  
"Sorry. I wanted to keep you company. If- If that's alright." Draco returned to his book, quill scratching elegant marks into cream parchment.  
"S'alright. I didn't mean to snap."  
"You're not missing anything anyway, Ginny, Sloper and Kirke pulled a Rowntree counter, without the flashy bits though. She's the only person on the team that can pull off a Wronskei feint too- I swear she'll end up professional." At the mention of Ginny Draco's expression soured.  
"You're still together?" Harry paled slightly, unnerved by Draco's question.  
"Uh no, we're not, Gin and I are completely different people than we were before, you know." he cleared his throat, not wanting to bring up the memories that choked him every night. "She deserves someone that won't accidentally kill her in her sleep, and she's not really my type..."  
"O-oh," Draco's skin flushed under the collar, pink with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to assume..."  
"It's fine, everyone does, at least you asked,"  
The pair sat there in silence for a moment, unsure what to say. With such a blackened history behind them, each step forward was unsure, tentative.  
"Do you want to play? Later I mean. Seeker's game. I'm sure you miss it- I do." and he did miss it. The blonde looked at him, calculating his response.  
"Just us?" Harry nodded. "Then prepare to lose Potter!"  
He couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my wonderful beta!


End file.
